


no words

by resonant_aura



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Day 3, Iggy is such a romantic, Ignoct Week 2018, M/M, Masquerade Ball, short and sweet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-08
Updated: 2018-02-08
Packaged: 2019-03-15 14:08:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13614975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/resonant_aura/pseuds/resonant_aura
Summary: There are no words exchanged. The waltz brought them close, chest to chest, hand in hand, breath on breath; now they stand still, mutually enraptured, starstruck.





	no words

**Author's Note:**

> All recognizable material is the intellectual property of Square Enix and its affiliates, of course.
> 
> A contribution for Ignoct Week! Shorter than I usually write, but I liked it this way.

There are no words exchanged. He’s resplendent in gold and green, his mask a fey and fanciful thing, full of unexpected curlicues and beautiful shapes. There is not a single inch of bare skin save for the beautifully carved lips behind the mask and those eyes, green like secret forest glades, watching him from across the room. The prince wonders if he will get to see the skin beneath the ruffles and filigree and glinting metal, and is thrilled by the knowledge that, for several more hours at least, there is no way to know. Drawn in, feeling vulnerable, he approaches the stranger in green and holds out his hand.

The stranger smiles, slow, languorous like sunlight settling in a still pool, and clasps that hand. He’s wearing gloves, but his hands are so warm.

The prince and the stranger dance, a lively galliard, a paired allemande and courante, and then the waltz. The prince does not think about the people he’s disappointing with his preoccupation, does not think about the whispers that will fly about court later. He thinks about the confidence in the stranger’s steps, the catch in his breath that the prince can feel beneath his hand, the bewitching green of his eyes, the gold in his costume catching the light like liquid fire. He thinks about that luxurious high collar and how much he wants to tear it free and bare the warmth of flesh and blood beneath.

There are no words exchanged. The waltz brought them close, chest to chest, hand in hand, breath on breath; now they stand still, mutually enraptured, starstruck. The stranger grips his hand tightly and tugs him from the dance floor. Out and out they go, to the gardens, beyond to the Citadel orchards. The prince loses his mask along the way, ribbons tumbling in the air, but it makes little difference; everyone had known him immediately. The prince follows along, arm outstretched, breathless and weightless with joy, running with the enthralling stranger deep into the woods.

They run, blood hot and high, boots tripping in the dark, until the stranger deems it far enough.

And then, blood hot and high, hands fumbling in the dark, they kiss.

They must be so far, the prince dimly realizes, to keep secret the moans of passion they make. To keep themselves hidden from prying eyes that would drink up how their hands stroke through one another’s hair, how the prince’s back arches up into the taller man’s chest, how the stranger’s lips draw back to drop a chaste and adoring kiss on the prince’s forehead.

“Should we continue the pretense, your Highness?” the stranger murmurs.

“Shh,” the prince replies in a hushed voice. “No words during a masque. You’ll break the spell.”

The stranger withdraws and presses an apologetic kiss to the prince’s knuckles. He smiles again, that same molten gold smile, and withdraws a small notebook from the inside of his jacket. Masque letters, a common way for those who engaged in masque trysts to… remember. Or pursue, depending on who you asked. The prince returns the stranger’s smile, wry, a little awkward. The stranger also produces a tiny, tiny light, holds it out to the prince, and opens the little book to an already-marked page:

_Good evening, your Highness. If all has gone according to my highest and dearest hopes, then you would be amenable to another encounter in the future._

The prince reads this and snorts softly with laughter.

_As I know words are forbidden on a masque night, I cannot ask you outright as I might prefer. Therefore, allow me the privilege of assuming you might wish to know my name._

The prince looks up into the merry curve of the stranger’s green, green eyes, eyes that he can read more clearly than any book because he has known them nearly all his life, eyes that have seen through every mask the prince has donned since he was a child, eyes that he fell in love with ages ago and have become so comfortingly familiar after all this time.

He nods.

The stranger flips the page.

_I am Ignis Scientia Lucis Caelum, promised consort to the throne of Lucis._

_And I love you very much._

When the prince looks up, the smile curling his lips in a sweet bow, he sees that Ignis is holding out a pen. The prince takes it.

_Gods, you’re such an idiot, Iggy. But as always your idea was amazing._

_And I love you always._

There are no words exchanged—only a promise, repeated and renewed again and again as they always have, as they always will.


End file.
